Skewed Compass
by High Pot In Noose
Summary: SI!Non-Binary!Harry/ Inevitably gay/ #sorrynotsorry/ In which a person has read the books, seen the films, scoured websites and consumed/written so much fanfiction, but imagining what it would be like is so different than how they themselves would make of things. They supposed they would have to do their best. Or they could just kill themselves. . . . Hmm, but that wouldn't be PG.
1. Chapter 1

**AN: **So this was originally posted on my AO3, and I completely forgot to cross-post in over here, so sorry? But, like, also you're welcome because ya'll are getting all four of the first chapters all at once without the usual wait lol

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**Chapter One: In Which Someone is Reborn, and They'd Like a Refund If You Please!**

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**I**t was suicide. Nothing fancy, nothing sensational, just a belly full of sleeping pills and alcohol after their mother's cremation.

They planned it down to the finest details so that it was the least burdensome on their remaining relations. All their belongings and money were willed to their uncle with the three children; the money their third-eldest aunt still owed them was to be paid to their youngest aunt to boost her son's university fund; their body — should it be found — was to be cremated without a funeral nor wake; and, for the love of all the gods, someone take in second-cousin Leo — he's a useless asshole who doesn't have anyone else to take care of him.

With all these demands properly filed and a copy left on the table for anyone to find, they trekked into the woods, found themselves a decently deep cave, and went to sleep.

Dear reader, please don't feel uneasy taking in this information. Our main character had a pretty good life in the grand scheme of things, and they had suffered nothing no one else had not gone through and overcame. It was just an unfortunate turn of events that our main character was one of those unlucky few who had known the numbness of apathy since their baby days and also had the personal failing of being slothful to the point that they regarded even breathing as troublesome and not worth the effort. They had known happiness and several pleasures of living in their time, but when one is born feeling like human existence itself is a starkly incorrect state of being for them, is it any wonder they would slide back into the void as soon as they felt it would trouble no one for them to disappear?

That being said, let us look at the positives! They then enjoyed the most peaceful sleep they'd ever had.

In fact, it was such a peaceful sleep, they were cross to realise they were waking up, doubly cross that they were waking up _at all_, and triply so because they were rudely woken.

Glue-y eyes unpeeled just the barest millimetre to glare arctic death through their lashes at whatever bitch thought it was fine to screech like an in-season sloth when someone was obviously sleeping. If they didn't feel so warm and comfy at that moment, they might have tried to throw something at the person. Their sleep-sluggish brain registered dark blonde or light brown hair, pasty-pale skin, and — that's it.

They wriggled slightly in their blanket — (_where the Hell did they get a blanket?_) — shut that millimetre of open eye, and went right back to sleep.

In hindsight, they might have had a better understanding of what was going on if they had bothered to listen in on a conversation/reaction the fandom had speculated about for literal decades, but they were sleepy, okay? Not only were they back from the dead, but they were also still under the effects of Dumbledore's sleeping charm at the time. Cut a bro a break.

Anyway, in the long run, it didn't _really_ matter that they were asleep during the 'first scene' considering they were wide awake during even more previously speculated sequences. In other words, they woke up again mid-afternoon with a full bladder and finally realised there was something terribly amiss with this afterlife.

They rubbed the sleep from their eyes and sat up, grouchy as Hell but not enough to spew it into the air. They glared blankly at the room in front of them, not really taking anything in besides that fact that there was something to take in at all.

A dimly-lit room, thin curtains were drawn up. Enclosing them were . . . bars? A cage? No, there was no top — a crib? They were in a _crib_?

Were they a freaking _baby_?

Gods dammit! They hadn't wanted reincarnation, damn it all! At the very least not a reincarnation that involved them still remembering who they had been!

They threw themselves back down and kicked the air with impotent frustration. Was non-existence too much to ask for?!

If the lack of shock on the main character's part concerning living once more is confusing to you, it might serve you to know that they had been born and raised as a Buddhist previously, so the concept of reincarnation was more or less commonplace — to be expected even. Still, they had hoped they would remain in the spirit plane considering they had been very finished with living. Even better would have been to lose all structure of singularity altogether and become one with the universe.

But this was not so.

Their fuming tapered off when they become increasingly aware of their bladder.

Sitting up again, they shifted uncomfortably. It felt like they were wearing a diaper . . . a quick pat-down confirmed it. But nothing, not even newfound babyhood was going to convince them to piss themselves. Their personal pride stung at the thought.

They hauled themselves to their feet unsteadily, using the bars to brace. A few tentative bounces and kicks proved they had better control of their limbs than they had feared. After a moment, they let go of the bars. They breathed in relief at discovering they could balance themselves just fine.

They waddled around the crib, smiling. Okay, they could do this.

The bars of the crib were not as high as they would have expected. Or maybe they were bigger than they estimated. It didn't take much effort to sling a leg over the side and pull themselves up. A little shimmy down had them securing their foothold on the edge between the bars, and the other leg followed.

They peered down at the floor below them. It wasn't far, but they'd been afraid of heights in their past life and the unease was still present. Truthfully, they could have jumped and been no worse for wear, but. . . .

They lowered themselves slowly, allowing their toe to brush the floor before they were willing to let go of the bars.

They landed with a little _thud_ on their bum, the diaper lending extra cushioning.

Convenient, that.

Okay, toilet time.

They thanked whoever might have been listening that the door to the room they were in was not closed completely. They tugged it open further and teetered their way out.

A quick look around showed they were at least a floor up — there was a staircase off to their left. Perhaps there was a washroom up here? The place looked kind of upscale, there was bound to be _something_ available for them without the need to risk the stairs.

They had their hands reached for the handle of the first door on their right of the one they came out of when footsteps clacked on the stairs, the sounds growing closer. They froze in alarm when a head became visible. A chubby fist came up and they found themselves with their thumb in their mouth before they knew what was happening.

It was a woman, gigantic by their current reckoning, slim, blonde — stereotypical suburban white woman, albeit dressed a bit old-fashioned. She caught sight of them standing there and gaped.

"W-wha—?" she sputtered, paused a step below the landing. She came to her sense quickly enough and pounced on them. She caught them by the arm that was still reaching for the door handle.

"What is—? How did you get out?" she demanded. She looked strangely cross and not a small bit scared.

They looked up at her warily, unsure how to answer, or if they should at all — they didn't know how old this body was yet. Was this their mother? She would know something was off about them, wouldn't she?

"Mmm. . . ." they hummed around the thumb in their mouth, stalling. Gingerly, they pulled it out and tried, "Potty?"

There — that was innocuous enough, right? If they were old enough to walk, surely they were old enough for a few words.

Thankfully, their answer calmed the woman down. Her shoulders visibly un-tensed and her grip on their wrist — uncomfortably tight — loosened.

"Toilet trained already, are you?" she muttered, tugging them along to another door. "At least there's that."

Alright, so she wasn't their mother. A babysitter then? A neighbour?

The woman led them into a remarkably clean washroom. (Like, wow, who was keeping up this place? The tub looked freshly scrubbed!) There was what appeared to be a toddler's step stool tucked next to a laundry basket which the woman promptly moved over for them, and then she . . . there was even child's toilet seat — she pulled it out from the cupboard under the sink.

Huh. This family sure was extra.

After taking care of their business (wherein they discovered they were in possession of male genitalia — but more on that later), they trotted back out to the woman, who'd been waiting on the other side of the door.

They hadn't had much interaction with babies in their past life, but they were pretty certain the look of strained revulsion being directed at them was not typically the expression one would have when voluntarily taking care of a child. And it had to be voluntarily, because why else would there be baby amenities present? There was a baby gate on the stairs as well.

They drew their face up in a way that had been cute on their old face. Their fist found its way back to their mouth, though they stopped themselves from actually sucking on the thumb again like their body apparently wanted to.

"Ma?" they said, noting that their voice was cute as fuck.

The woman flinched. She sucked in a breath. Her eyes watered as she looked off to the side.

"Your mother's not here," she told them, her voice thin, shaky.

Their gut felt like it landed in their toes and was leaking out of the nail beds. They didn't need to be a genius to know what that meant. They looked up at her blankly, not quite sure how to feel about losing a mother yet again — and _already_, despite being a literal baby.

Their body decided on crippling sorrow; tears were dribbling down their face before they realised it was happening.

Were they in foster care? Was this an orphanage? Wait — was their father alive? They couldn't keep their thoughts straight amidst their baby body being so utterly miserable.

The woman must have felt something like pity for them — her revulsion dimmed. She bent and scooped them off the floor, settling them to perch on her waist.

They instinctively tucked themselves against the side of her breast, pulling their arms up and into their chest. A quiver of a whimper escaped them. They curled up as best as they could, stupid tears now flowing in earnest.

She eyed them warily, reaching up with a hand to rub their back.

"Suppose you'll want something to eat — you slept right through breakfast and lunch," she mumbled, moving towards the stairs.

They were hardly listening, too caught up in the shocking amount of sorrow. Goodness, they had never felt such a tidal wave in their previous life! Was this just how babies felt things? Hell, was this how normal people felt things? They weren't sure they cared much for it, not at all.

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**T**he realisation that things were even more off than they originally thought came when the woman cooed out, "Dudley!" to the other baby in the house.

They told themselves they were just over-reacting, that this was obviously England and the English must have had stranger naming conventions than they knew about before, but that insistence on their part took a massive beating when the woman's husband came back from work and she greeted him with a loving, "Welcome home, Vernon!"

They yielded to acceptance when Vernon answered with, "Hello, Petunia, my dear," as he pecked her on the cheek. They were almost too aghast to notice when Vernon spotted them sitting on the floor with Dudley amongst the boy's numerous toys.

His face twisted up in a manner that was just as repulsed as Petunia's had been if not more so.

They disguised their mental crisis by cooing baby noises, petting the soft toy Dudley had thrown at them, and handing the boy another block for his primitive tower. They behaved as innocuously as they could, though Vernon's glower could have been a boulder for how heavy it felt.

They took care to be as accommodating to Dudley's whims as possible for the rest of the day and into the evening. Vernon looked like he wanted to throw his plate when Petunia fed them at the table at dinner, but it seemed even he had his limits for being hateful. Thank goodness the fanfictions were horribly exaggerated on this front.

When Petunia put Dudley and them to bed again that night (in the nursery still — the Dursleys weren't completely heartless in this universe it seemed), they lied awake, wide-eyed and lost, wondering how they landed in such a situation.

Was this some sort of alternate reality? Was this proof of a multiverse? Was this an insert fic? Did this make them this reality's equivalent of Deadpool? Why, out of all the characters, did they have to be _this one_? And was this the canon universe? Could this even be considered the canon universe any longer (if it had been originally) if they were now in this body?

Oh, gods, had they been born already in this body or had they taken over by accident? Was this some alternate universe where an OC took over after OG-Harry got nailed with the Killing Curse? Were they residing in the body of a dead baby?

Actually, were they even magical in this universe? The Dursleys' disdain pointed to that, but that could be because Petunia hated her sister still. . . .

Good Heavens, they were panicking — they did _not_ do well under pressure!

They turned on their side towards the wall, huddling up in their blanket.

Maybe they were in an AU where Neville's the Boy Who Lived? Please, all the gods, let that be the case! They were as capable of defeating evil as a stalk of wheat was of fighting off a plague of locust!

They fell asleep wishing yet again that they wouldn't wake up again.

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**A** childhood as a pariah amongst the Dursleys wasn't nearly as horrible as they would have thought. Granted, they'd imagined some sick shit after pouring through archives of dark fics, and they were actually very content being mostly alone, so being neglected didn't really bother them, but . . . maybe they weren't as provoking as canon Harry? No, that wasn't right — they got slapped around when Vernon and Petunia were in a bad mood, and both adults had no shortage of derogatory words for them for the pettiest 'faults'. . . it probably had to do with the fact they weren't actually a child.

It was hard to be phased by dehumanizing treatment when you were mentally a dead-inside Millennial that had already lived through the global nightmare that was the 2010-20s. They currently lived in a nice house — one they didn't have to pay rent for — they were guaranteed some variation of a meal at least twice a day, and they didn't have any real responsibilities — not yet at least. Being treated like hot garbage aside, it wasn't the worst gig they'd lived through; Hell, the toilet was always working and the weather never came close to flooding nor ripping the roof off — they had no real complaints on this front.

That was not to say they excused the ill-treatment though. No, if anything, they were even more outraged about it than they had been reading through the books the first time! This body they were in was a _child_! And they never once heard a kind word from either of the Dursleys that wasn't sarcastic or back-handed at best! The Dursleys were lucky Harry had been ignorant of his magic in the books and that this Harry wasn't susceptible to their suppression or they would've had an Obscurial on their hands before Dudley was old enough for primary school!

That being said, growing up as Harry Potter was actually pretty dull with all things considered. After Harry came to grips with being Harry (and their common-use name at the very least was definitely Harry in this universe; Aunt Petunia had introduced them by that name when the neighbours came snooping), they had to come to grips with how boring being a little kid was.

The days of toddlerhood passed in a haze. There was _nothing_ to do, nothing that wouldn't draw suspicion to themselves. They had no interest in Dudley's toys (not that they were allowed to play with the toys without Dudley demanding a playmate), the picture books had been devoured all within the first day, drawing scribbles only went so far, and they were under near-constant surveillance, so they couldn't read whatever few proper books were in the house even if they could reach the shelves — toddlers did not read _How to Win Friends and Influence People_.

It was true that they were very purposefully being deprived of things in favour of Dudley in an aggressive show of neglect — but even if they hadn't, Harry would have been so _bored_ all the same. Little kids played with blocks and watched baby shows all day long! It was sooooo _boooooorrrring_!

The only thing left for them was to disassociate, and disassociate _hard_. It disturbed Aunt Petunia when she caught them at it, but it was that or hibernate, so. . . .

Honestly, when chores were finally pinned on them at around four-years-old, Harry was almost thankful, if only because they could finally zone-out in peace without risking Aunt Petunia being creeped out by them staring into nothingness almost unblinkingly for hours on end.

This didn't mean they meant to be idle though.

Despite being the sort that would happily hibernate their life away, Harry did their best to do a better job of their life than they had before. Granted, there was the plot of the story they eventually had to contend with (that they didn't want to think about lest they throw themselves into traffic), but there was so many things they wished they had done in their past life, so many what-ifs that hinged on them just motivating themselves. They very firmly told themselves that they would 'cheat' their way into the things they wanted to accomplish by using the talents and skills of their former life.

Thinking of it as having already hacked the system made it easier for them to convince themselves to shake off some of the apathy and follow through.

For example, Harry thought it was hands-down a hack that they already knew how to cook. They'd always hated cooking, but Aunt Petunia put them on the stove as soon as they could reach it with a chair. They knew for a fact they avoided the frying pan to the back of the head OG-Harry received in canon because of the skill. It also got them on Vernon's good side as much as it was possible.

There weren't many opportunities to do anything really worthwhile within the setting — make that 'at all' — but Harry consoled themselves that they would be off to primary school in no time and thus finally old enough in Aunt Petunia's eyes to be without constant supervision. From there, it would just be a matter of some fast-talking to get themselves out into the neighbourhood on their own and into the library as well. Finally getting some proper entertainment aside, they would then have an excuse to know things they had no business knowing just yet.

In the meantime, they did their best to make friends with Dudley. He was a little snot, but Harry had always been good with kids, and Dudley was actually pretty cute if you looked beyond the bad parenting.

Harry just had to wait.

Ugh, they _hated_ waiting.

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**AN:** As I said, I'm on AO3. I'm also on Tumblr as hi-pot-and-news


	2. Chapter 2

**AN: **This will be a quadruple post including the first chapter.

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**Chapter Two: In Which Harry Refuses to be a Boy, Rejects Your Reality, and Substitutes Their Own**

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**H**arry made it to nearly five years old before dysphoria — horrible, _awful_, and so unexpected — got to them.

An acute wave of _wrongwrongwrong_ washed over them when Uncle Vernon was upbraiding them for some petty shit, snarling at them, "DO YOU HEAR ME, BOY?!"

So panicked and maladjusted, they didn't even notice when Uncle Vernon hauled them off and shoved them in the cupboard under the stairs.

Harry didn't remember much of what went through their head as they scratched at their skin and squirmed like something slithered under their flesh. Acid-like tears made a mess of their face, blinding them. They were so intently aware of every single inch of their body, every — _w_r_ONg__**W**__r__O_**N**_**g**_ — part, every bit of fl—_nononono_—esh, and it was pain(_h_o_**rR**__I_f_iC_)ful, just — just (_a_B_**o**_**m**_i_n_**a**_**B**_L_e) not right!

.

.

.

They didn't much like thinking back on it. They never had dysphoria more than a trickle of unease before — that a body was capable of such utter, crippling rejection of itself was not something they'd realised could happen beyond the abstract.

Um, but, on the bright side, they found out they were some variation of a metamorphmagus. So, yay?

When Aunt Petunia came home and let them out of the cupboard, Harry told her very seriously, "Harry is a girl."

That wasn't exactly right, not really — they were neither boy nor girl. Unfortunately, the gender spectrum wasn't a concept that was known nor accepted just yet — and even if it had been, the Dursleys weren't the sort to accept anything like that. Harry was on the feminine side of the spectrum anyway though, so being called a girl didn't disturb them as much. It wasn't ideal, but they'd much rather be addressed with female pronouns that be triggered into another fit.

They didn't know why being called a boy bothered them so much this time around when it never bothered them in their previous life (it was somewhat vindicating to have irrefutable proof that a good bit of it was biological though), but they were not going to leave it unaddressed.

Aunt Petunia had tried to scold, but Harry hadn't hesitated to show her the 'proof.' Their aunt was utterly pole-axed, though she recovered soon enough to give Harry a cuff for being so shameless. She did, however, go right to Uncle Vernon and let him know ("How did we not know about this until now?!" was the theme of the following conversation), so Harry counted it as a win all the same.

They hadn't thought it would make such a difference in the treatment they'd receive though.

The biggest change was that the Dursleys no longer allowed Dudley to physically bully Harry any more. It was Uncle Vernon himself that gave Dudley a dressing down for whacking them with an action figure when the two of them were playing superheroes one evening.

"You don't hit girls, Dudley!" Uncle Vernon said severely, a heavy hand on Dudley's shoulder. "You don't _ever_ hit a girl!"

It was surprisingly decent of him, sexism inherent to the time period aside. He even backed up his words by refusing to lay a hand on Harry himself the next time he raged at them. It didn't stop him for being an ass that screamed at a little kid for the sole crime of being 'a freak,' but it was something.

It didn't stop Petunia from dishing out smacks as she liked either, but, still, it was something.

And then there were the clothes.

Aunt Petunia took it upon herself to girl-ify Dudley's hand-me-downs as best as she could, even going so far as to dye them softer colours and add little bows on some. She wasn't so old-fashioned that she turned all of the trousers into skirts, but she did convert the bigger shirts into smocks and tunics. She was so gung-ho about it, she actually went out to a thrift shop for a few outfits when she wasn't happy about how boyish Harry's clothes still were.

Harry wasn't exactly thrilled, but if it prevented people from assuming they were a boy. . . .

The metamorphism bit was cool though! Harry experimented with it in the privacy of the cupboard when they were shut in for the night. They liked making their nails into claws and putting patches of scales and feathers along their arms. Watching the colours and patterns shift helped them ignore the claustrophobia.

(Oh, gods, they'd get bigger and bigger, and the cupboard would close in even more on them — but they could keep themselves small now, right? _Right_. If they stayed small, then it would be alright — they just had to stay small.)

They couldn't do much else with the power at this point — it was Funny Business™ as Uncle Vernon would say — but it was comforting to know that they could literally be any shape or form they wanted; female, or male (highly unlikely, but still), or both, or neither. They were neither most of the time at this point — there were no words to express how relieving it was.

They couldn't wait until they could be more obvious about it like Tonks was.

* * *

**H**arry saw themselves for the first time when they were five years old, on their first day of formal education. This was unusually late for an experience with a mirror, but they weren't yet tall enough for the hall mirror, and Aunt Petunia didn't let them use Dudley's stool at the washroom sink.

The mirror in question was on the wall of their classroom, next to where everyone was meant to put their coats and bags. Harry caught sight of themselves out of the corner of their eye as Aunt Petunia was gushing over Dudley.

Adorable — that was the first thought that came to them. Harry wasn't vain, never had been, never will be, but there was no denying what their eyes were telling them.

The thing that first drew their notice was the hair — it looked sentient in its disarray; a fluffy, curly explosion, like a dandelion drenched in tar. Aunt Petunia's doing, no doubt. Honestly, it was a little frightening. This was the exact reason they grew it long in their previous life. Upon inspection, they saw it was the same dark-to-the-point-of-looking-black cola-red that it'd been in their previously as well.

What kept their attention though. . . .

Harry had never really bought into the descriptions of how amazing Canon-Harry's eyes were in the fics. Flowery details, metaphors — it hadn't really been their cup of tea. But _now_ they understood because 'startling' was a good word for the colour. Bright, cutting green like dandelion juice in a faceted glass. They looked positively enormous within their small face, stark against the olive of their skin.

(Huh, did they have some South Asian ancestry like it had been speculated after all?)

And, oh — what a face! Teeny-tiny, even features, and the prettiest lips they'd ever seen! And such pinch-able cheeks! Ugh, kawaii as fuck! They could stare at this face all day!

The crowning feature, of course, was the infamous scar. Sowilo, the rune of power, on the right of their forehead, slightly bisecting their brow. The shape was actually because of the wand-movement for the Killing Curse — they remembered seeing that on the Pottermore website.

Harry brushed their fringe aside.

The scar was larger than they imagined, reaching from hairline to eyebrow. It was slightly puckered near the middle, the damaged skin wider than at the tips. This was the Horcrux. . . .

"What are you doing, girl?" scolded Aunt Petunia, tugging them away from the mirror.

Harry dragged their eyes away to see they had gotten closer without realising it and had been all but nose to nose with their reflection.

Aunt Petunia didn't get a chance to scold them much longer after that. The teacher popped out from somewhere and rounded them up a few minutes before class was to officially begin. She shoo'd out the parents with a cheery smile, handling the criers like a pro.

The teacher — "Call me Miss Darcy!" — had all the signs of a seasoned primary-school instructor. While still in her prime, she had a matronly aura, her clothes were tidy but low-maintenance, and she herded children like it was nothing. (Harry had taught school in their past life — herding children was _not_ nothing.) With a smile so sugary it had to be processed, she got all the children settled in their seats.

Harry honestly tried to be engaged, but nursery school hadn't interested nor really benefited them the first time around; a second time did even less for them. At the students' current age, it was essentially glorified babysitting — nothing they'd be doing was much different from what they might do at home except with more children involved.

Case in point: Miss Darcy was having them go to town on some colouring pages on the premise of 'learning about animals.'

Nothing else to do, Harry coloured, pretending they were once again in one of their art classes from secondary school. The crayons were the cheap kind made to be abused, broken, and thrown out — typical nursery school fare — but Harry would make do.

Miss Darcy actually had them colour for a notably long time — they only had one activity after that before it was time for lunch. There hadn't been that much colouring from what they could remember of their first time going through nursery school, but that could probably be chalked up to the difference between time periods amongst other things.

Harry gobbled down the peanut butter and banana sandwich they'd packed themselves for lunch as Miss Darcy marched them out to the playground. As the others dispersed into the play equipment, Harry got permission to visit the washroom. They bee-lined to it as quickly as they could without being suspicious.

And there was a mirror again.

Harry didn't know how long they stood there, transfixed at the sight of themselves. They did so love pretty things, loved looking at pretty things — and their current face was already so pretty without them even changing anything yet!

And on that thought. . . .

Slowly, they morphed their features, imagining other faces they remembered liking quite a bit. Almond eyes grew rounder, their nose thinner, hundreds of little details they didn't know how to describe. They shifted through dozens of looks, mimicking Germanic, East Asian, Central American, Middle Eastern, et cetera.

And, for a moment, they shifted to the face of their former self.

Harry wasn't quite sure why they did it — they'd never been as aesthetically-pleasing to themselves as they'd wanted to be, and it was odd in a sort of horrific way to see this face again in their current setting. Straight brows; boring nose; pointy chin; round face with an uneven smattering of freckles, a trinity of them on the right cheek. Not ugly, not at all, but so very underwhelming. It was the face of a person who'd never quite been enough, not in their convictions, not in their capabilities, not even in something as little as being formed in a way that made the owner content.

Harry didn't think they hated who they were before — they certainly didn't despise this face either — but they were undeniable glad they didn't have to be that person any longer. Sure, they hadn't wanted rebirth, but being in a position to literally be whomever they wanted to be? Dizzyingly freeing.

They shifted back to their new base face and sighed in unexpected relief. They let the pleasure of looking at this Harry's face wash over them.

They were just thinking about experimenting with their hair when the bell rang. Their cue to rejoin their class.

A pity. Another day then.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three: In Which a Star is Born and The Hills Are Alive With the Sound of Music**

* * *

**T**he crowning delight of Harry's current existence was the realisation that metamorphism meant they could alter their voice box as well. The discovery came during one of their now everyday retreats to the washroom while lunch and break were in session.

They'd been humming scale practices, which slowly turned into an operatic piece they'd heard in a stage-play. Nothing unusual — they'd often squeaked out soaring high parts of their favourite pieces in their past life when there'd been no one around to hear them mangle the tune. But it was not so this time around. It took them a moment to register that the vocal gymnastics they previously made a mockery of was actually playing out terribly well; they'd never managed such clean staccati before, not in this octave — they used to be a contralto and reached mezzo at most.

And then they executed a crystal clear A-flat above high C.

They nearly choked on their tongue — that — this was — they were singing a coloratura soprano piece!

Their voiced pitched from their surprise, and —

F6.

Harry sat down heavily on the floor, head tucked into their knees as they tried not to pass out from the shock.

After a minute, shakily, they straighten. Inhaling slowly, they opened their mouth again, and — there! F6 again! It wasn't a fluke! And, holy crap, it didn't feel like anything — no strain, no difficulty; it was as comfortable as their talking voice.

They sat back, staring down into their lap with wide eyes.

They'd known that they could change any part of their physicality at will, vocal pitch included, but they hadn't _known_ known — they hadn't really comprehended they could_ reach any note, _put on any tonality, and,_ oh, good gods, they could expand their lung capacity, too, couldn't they? _They could probably sustain notes inhumanly long! They could — they could . . . !

Well, they could sing like a goddamned dream — could probably take up a wind instrument as well — but that was about it, now that they were thinking about it.

Coming down a bit from the giddy high, they told themselves firmly that it didn't actually mean much in the grand scale of things beyond what it meant to them personally; there was no need to get so worked up. They didn't handle being worked up well, especially not in this body that somehow felt things so much more strongly than the one before — they couldn't let themselves slip into being overwhelmed even from something that made them happy.

Oh, but they could go professional if they wanted — there was that, too. It was only a matter of getting this body used to enunciating more precisely and to the different styles of music. They could be on, um — West End! Oh, goodness, they could _totally_ be on West End — ooh, and maybe even join an opera house, too! Was Disney Channel a thing in England yet? Harry was just the right age to be amongst their 90s-2000s era of stars! Oh, gods, oh, gods, this was a talent that was marketable — undeniably marketable — so they could actually do something they liked for a living! They could have a career they actually enjoyed —!

No — no, they had to chill out with this.

Inhale.

Exhale.

They were freaking five at the moment — a career was far off yet. And, Jesus Christ, they knew for damn sure there was a vault of gold waiting for them at Gringotts; if they invested well — which they could with the future knowledge they had — they'd never need to have a career at all if they didn't want to.

Now, wasn't that a calming thought? Nice and calm, yeah? Perfectly soothed and calm.

They started humming again. Nothing specific, actually sort of droning, a nice _calm_ and errant droning. Mmm, thinking of droning —

They busted into hysterical tears, hands coming up to clutch the sides of their face, maniacal laughter erupting from them.

_Polyphonic_ _overtone_.

And two sets of it — they'd given themselves a second set of vocal folds.

* * *

**E**lation made Harry want to immediately run and tell anyone willing to stop for a moment all the excruciating details of their discovery — leaving out the inherent magical properties, of course. But they didn't; they didn't want the Dursleys to come down on them if they caught wind of it.

That was not to say that the Dursleys definitely would give Harry Hell for this new 'talent' — Dudley had no skill nor interest in the Arts, and so Harry wouldn't inadvertently overshadow him with this. But Harry remembered the theories and head-canons that the Dursleys hated any signs that canon-Harry had sort of commendable traits and made sure to try to stamp any out. Not that this was something that Harry would be allowing to be taken away from them, but if the Dursleys didn't know, then they wouldn't be looking to deprive Harry of it either. They couldn't exploit Harry with it either.

And so Harry refrained from looking into a school choir no matter how much they would have loved to join up. Granted, a nursery school choir would likely be horrifically bad, what with consisting of children who had yet to learn how to carry a tune let alone have any control of their voices, but at least it would have been fun and got Harry away from the house a bit longer.

That didn't stop Harry from revelling though. It was a quiet sort of revelling, reserved for a single person and used no words, but they were pretty certain everyone could see they were incandescently happy. They'd been walking around with a smile that refused to be quashed for days now.

This also made them strangely popular? Dudley hadn't yet harassed them during school (if he ever would with how Harry was working this reality), and this somehow equated to the other children wanting to be around them, almost doubly so now that Harry was actually smiling around them.

Just that morning, the boy who sat next to Harry in class showed off his deluxe pack of crayons again and offered to share with Harry even though he'd been so militant about not letting anyone touch it before. Then, at lunch, three girls who sat at the other side of the classroom stopped Harry before they could escape to the washroom again and asked Harry to play hide-and-seek. A couple of boys from another class talked Harry's ear off after school before pick-up, too, and even Piers, Dudley's rat-faced friend he met on the first day of school, chattered to them about this and that as they waited for Aunt Petunia to come get them.

Harry didn't really know how to take the warm reception. On one hand, they'd been an awkward, friendless little weirdo when they'd been this age before, and they'd been fully ready to live through that again because of canon-Harry's enforced isolation. Isolation was easy to them, comfortable even. On the other hand, Harry couldn't deny that having people — even little brats — so eager to get on their good side was ego-stroking. The habit of being perfectly agreeable and attentive in public had followed them into this life, where it served them well — apparently, someone that actually listened and expressed interest their interests was something the little brats of Harry's school weren't used to.

"Harry, Harry! Look at this!"

"Hey, Harry, want my last cupcake?"

"Sit over here, Harry! We saved a spot for you!"

Admittedly, it was annoying to pretend they cared about things like colouring books and new toys, and Harry kind of resented the kids for prompting the response from them, but the kids were pretty cute for the most part, so Harry forgave them.

Mercifully, the staff was ambiguous to Harry for the most part.

Charmed school days aside, Harry now filled their time even at Privet Drive with as much singing as they could, squeezing in as much practice as possible without tipping the Dursleys off. They hummed Lady Gaga through the mopping, Disney through the dishes, Mozart through the cooking, and musicals while they gardened. Harry was left alone through these chores now despite being still pre-primary school age after Aunt Petunia observed how oddly capable they were — after a period of suspicion, she just left them to it. In this solitude, they daydreamed of what the performing arts were like within the wizarding community.

Celestina Warbeck was a big name Harry knew from the books, The Weird Sisters as well, but that was pretty much it? Oh — and they knew there was a popular singer that was a dhampir, but. . . . yeah, that was it. There hadn't been much time for really anything but quidditch and worrying about survival in canon-Harry's life.

Harry wondered if there was a school of performing arts. They remembered reading something about a . . . university? Or maybe it was a theatre company? _Something_ that was written in as a homage to the academy that several of the actors from the films trained at.

Probably was some sort of school, now that they were thinking on it — they wondered at what age people were allowed to apply. Hmm, but it was likely just for acting.

Harry eventually got a craving for an audience. Not an actual, viewing-them-from-a-stage audience, but just someone to admire and praise them. Harry did so love praise, but it was in short supply around these parts. They just wanted someone to pat them on the head and tell them they and their singing were pretty.

This was when they got it in their head to seek out a garden snake.

Admittedly, this was one of their dumber ideas; they knew nothing about the species of snakes that inhabited the British Isles other than they tended to be a lot more subtle in their colouring that the ones they were used to. They knew about adders — those were well-known — and the pattern on the back to identify them, but other than that, nothing.

Harry didn't let that stop them though — they went digging through the back garden whenever they had a free moment.

They struck gold one Sunday morning after a heavy rain the night before. The ground was soft, the weeds thicker — perfect for a snake to slither by to snack on whatever rodents or other creatures had been washed out of their hidey-holes. And, just so, Harry caught sight of a scaled tail twining through Aunt Petunia's tulips as they crept on their belly through the undisturbed morning dew.

Curiously, Harry didn't feel any fear or even startlement at the potential danger. Was this a by-product of being a Parselmouth?

_§__Excuse me?__§_ they said, and then jumped at hearing themselves. Good gods, what a sound! The films hadn't done it a bit of justice for just how eerily inhuman it was! The hair on their nape stood on end; they were thoroughly discomfited.

Or perhaps it was not the hearing of it that disturbed them, but the strange vibration they felt under their throat. It was a deep rumble, it resonated from around their vocal folds to . . . slightly above their diaphragm? And not in the front of their chest but near where they imagined their upper ribs met their spine. Harry knew then that this vibration must be how snakes could 'hear' the language — snakes didn't have ears after all.

Before Harry could think more on it, they saw the snake still. Ever so slowly, it wound itself around, coiling into itself as it peered unblinkingly from underneath a low-growing blossom.

_§Erm, hello?§ _they tried. _§Do you understand me?§_

The snake — a skinny thing with plain dark green scales — flicked its tongue, an air of cautious around it.

_§I'm Overlord-of-the-Battling-Horde—§ _Harry cut themselves off, blinking rapidly at what they'd said instead of their name. _§No, w-wait, I'm. . . Sacred-Summit-of-the-Battling-Horde— What?! No, I'm. . . I'm Overlord-of-the— Ugh! What is going on?_

"I'm _Harry_," Harry muttered to themselves in English, frowning at the tulip leaning over the snake. _§__**Overlord-of-the-Battling-Horde— **__Why can't I say my title words correctly?!__§_

_§Strange hatchling. . . .§ _the serpent hissed, lifting its head slightly. Its voice was whispery and almost childlike. _§Many fearsome title words.§_

Harry's eyes widened. The snake was talking to them!

_§Hello!§_ they said again, eagerly. They shuffled forward quickly in their enthusiasm.

The snake recoiled. It reared back, hissing sharply.

_§Ooh, sorry, sorry!§ _said Harry, pulling back to crouch on their haunches. They put as much contrition as they could in their tone. _§I didn't mean to startle you, I was just really happy you answered!§_

The apology didn't soothe the snake, it remained poised to strike, hissing unintelligible threatening sounds.

Harry cast around in their mind for something to do. After a moment of deliberation, for lack of anything else, they began to hum.

There was no proper melody starting off, but it did quiet the snake's aggression some.

After a moment, Harry recognized Trust in Me — the song the snake sang in Jungle Book. Bit on the nose of their subconscious. Had that film even come out yet? Well, at least it was working.

The snake loosened its tight stance. As it lowered itself back onto the ground, Harry heard another layer to their voice — the snake was humming along.

_§. . .you can rest. . .§ _Harry crooned, _§safe and sound. . . knowing I. . . am around. . . .§_

The inhuman bass of Parseltongue, the melodic hiss of the snake, and Harry's own honeyed tone combined hypnotically. Harry's eyes drooped half shut, lulled as well.

The tune returned to a quiet hum. At this point, the snake was well a truly mollified again.

_§Strange hatchling is dangerous,§ _the snake said as the song tapered off. Despite its words, it didn't sound all that upset in the assertion. It rested indolently amongst the flowers. _§This trick is strong but pleasant. Insidious. Can lure in prey easily. Clever hatchling.§_

Harry smiled at it for all that it was a snake and likely didn't understand human facial expressions.

_§It's nice to meet you,§_ said Harry, trying introductions again. _§What __are__ your title words? I'm Overlord-of-the-Battling-Horde— ugh, whatever. That.§_

_§This one does not understand the hatchling's unhappiness with its title words. 'Overlord-of-the-Battling-Horde' is intimidating and strong. This one is Fangs-Glinting-in-the-Water's-Reflection.§_

_§Those are lovely title words,§ _Harry said in earnest, smiling even wider.

_§Yes, yes,§ _it said with an air of impatience. It slithered closer, intently._ §Now, teach this one to do the lulling noise. Prey will be easier to catch when they are deceived into peace. It is a very worthy ploy.§_

Harry huffed a small laugh.

_§It's called singing_._ It's meant for entertainment, not deception.§_

_§This one knows singing, hatchling,§_ it retorted, coming nose to nose with Harry. _§That is not singing. That is the lure of a flesh-eater if ever there was one. This one knows not what species of serpent the hatchling is, but this one will not leave until this lure is learned.§_

Harry made a face.

_§You'll be here for a while then — if whatever you think I'm doing can be learned, I don't know how to teach it.§_

Fangs-Glinting-in-the-Water's-Reflection flicked their tongue out, scenting Harry's cheek.

_§So be it.§_


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four: In Which There Are Hacks and Head-Starts**

* * *

**F**angs-Glinting-in-the-Water's-Reflection — or 'Fang' as Harry had started to call him — was good for his word when he said he was sticking around. He took up permanent residence in a shallow hollow at the roots of a shrubbery on the side of the house. Whenever Harry was alone and free to chat while doing the weeding, he was right there waiting, demanding his 'lessons.'

This wouldn't have been trouble to hide from Harry's aunt if it wasn't for the veritable pit of vipers that invited themselves in as well.

_§Fang, who are all these snakes and why are they here?§_ Harry hissed at their freeloading acquaintance when they realised the sheer number of snakes in the yard a mere week after they met.

Fang, sunning himself in the meagre afternoon sun, gave the impression he would blink lazily at Harry if he had the eyelids to do so. If he was in any way perturbed by the serpentine theme park taking place in the yard before him, he didn't let on.

From all corners and crannies of the modest grassy area (England apparently didn't do backyards like in the United States) came whispers of conversation no human ear but Harry's could hear. There was talk of hunting spots, local predators, safe places to nest, things like that. Harry had never really considered that animals would have much to say — _humans_ didn't usually have anything worthwhile to say no matter how they carried on, so why would 'lesser' creatures? — but these snakes apparently had lots to discuss.

_§__**Fang**__,§ _Harry said again, sitting up from where they'd been pulling weeds. They flicked a clump of dirt at the serpent. _§Answers.§_

He twitched as the clump landed, grumbling under his breath.

_§Hatchling mimics the humans and has fooled a mated pair and their young into sharing their nest,§ _said Fang with a huff. _§The humans accept hatchling as the one that prowls the perimeter. Hatchling lives up to the title words of 'Overlord' and 'of the horde' — has shown no dislike to other serpents making use of the territory, has shown to be willing to hide us from the humans and lets us hunt the prey available. This is a good place, a safe place to rest with no threat.§_

There were a number of things wrong with what was just said. Harry didn't really know where to start.

Harry looked blankly at Fang.

Fang scented the air as he looked back.

And so they didn't start — Harry just left the rest of that conversation unstarted and unaddressed. With a hum and nod, they just accepted hosting a snake hostel as their life now.

They did a damned good job of it, too — initial baulking on their side apart (and a solid week beforehand of pointedly pretending that nothing was happening), Harry eventually had the snakes that made Number 4 their hangout trained to respond to a number of cues — verbal and otherwise — with unthinking alacrity. Two months later, it was to the point where none of the Dursleys had any hint that any sort of creature frequented their parcel of property.

This obedience didn't come without its stipulations though. It didn't take more than a single brag from Fang that he was learning a new way to capture prey for the rest of the snakes to want in on the 'luring trick' Harry supposedly could do; they all demanded in on it in exchange for compliance. Harry — rationalising that since Harry didn't know if they were actually doing anything in particular that could be taught, and thus the 'teaching' of it would inevitably be unending, resulting in the snakes' promised compliance also being unending — agreed easily enough.

Funnily enough, though none had yet to succeed in recreating Harry's supposed lure, the attempts _did_ help them on their hunts — the way it was explained to Harry, it was something to the effect that the vibration they emitted acted in a manner that sounded a lot like echolocation to Harry, helping the snakes locate hidden prey.

* * *

**H**aving lulled the Dursleys into complacency with Harry's well-honed front of being a standard-issue girl-child, they found it relievingly low-tension as they covertly began gathering tools for their craft. Snakes and magically-enhanced singing, while diverting and amusing ways to pass the time, were not exactly mentally stimulating, and Harry was still too young to visit the library by themselves — never mind being seen reading what they'd want to — so it was a breath of fresh air to actually be doing _something_ that was once barred from them.

On top of that, there was nothing that felt so intrinsically _right _as working in their field of practice, and they were eager to regain it. Thankfully, their specialisations were easy to disguise as mundane.

Dear reader, if you are at this time confused (perhaps for the first time, perhaps yet again) about what it is that's being referred to, I ask you suspend your disbelief if you've been raised to discredit the occult as nothing more than fanciful superstition. As it were, in their previous life, Harry had been that reality's version of a real-life witch — presumably your own reality's version of a real-life witch. Now, you might be duly scornful, but no matter your own personal beliefs concerning magic within your own reality, the fact of the matter was Harry had been a practitioner of witchcraft, and that aspect of them had not been left behind.

The first thing they managed to get a hold of was a deck of playing cards — plain, innocuous, a bit grungy even. They swiped it from an older kid during a break when it was left unattended. Before anyone could notice anything amiss, Harry was off in their hidey-hole with their prize.

The feel of cards in their hands again settled something within them Harry hadn't realised was restless. The glide of card-stock against their palms as the cards slid through the cuts and shuffles Harry put them through was cool and reassuring.

To be honest, despite being a diviner, Harry wasn't inclined towards cartomancy as a method, but it was _something_. And since these weren't even tarot cards, the Dursleys were unlikely to be suspicious should they find them in Harry's possession.

Harry pocketed the deck with relish, the spot it sat a comforting weight against their leg.

Emboldened by their fortuitous find — one that ended up _not_ being snatched away by their aunt nor uncle when it was indeed noticed — Harry stitched a hidden pouch into the inside of their school bag and proceeded to nick whatever they could get their hands on that looked even just passingly useful.

Harry wasn't exactly proud to be appropriating belongings from unsuspecting children — Harry was only just now nearing seven years old, and all the children they interacted with were rarely more than a couple of years older than that — but they weren't anywhere close to being guilty about it either. A couple of crayons here, a few pens and such there; it was nothing anyone would really miss. And they swiped from the teachers as well, so they weren't exactly preying on the innocent.

The highlight of their five-finger discounts were a small carton of chalk, a packet of birthday candles, and a trio of dice. Oh, and an old blackboard tablet they found wedged in the back of a supply closet, but that one didn't really count as 'stolen.' _These _were legitimate tools in their own right, not just haphazard substitutes. They weren't anything fancy, true, but chalk was chalk, and candles were candles.

(The dice were gods-sent as well, but, again, they weren't Harry's preferred method of divination.)

The first time Harry put chalk to blackboard, their hands were shaking. Holed up for the night in their cupboard, the dim little lightbulb overhead flickering, and the Dursleys snoozing away upstairs, it felt like something momentous. They weren't sure what exactly they were expecting — they didn't have any basis of expectation for what they were attempting within this reality's magic system — but the theories they had read, the possibilities that'd been proposed. . . . Surely — surely _something_—!

_Skrch_ . . . _skrch_ . . . _skrchh_. . . .

Sowilo stared up at them. The whiteness of the chalk was so stark against the matte face of the tablet, it appeared to glow.

Harry's skin prickled with goose-flesh. It was likely their imagination, but their scar tingled as well.

Harry placed their hands on either side of the rune, laying their fingers and thumbs so that they contained the symbol within a triangle. They breathed in a measured breath through their nose and then released it slowly through their mouth.

"A sun, to those who trek by sea,/ be ever constant hope/ at such a time as they convey/ o'er on the fishes' bath,/ until their sea-craft carries them/ unto their earthen path." As they spoke, they cast their mind to thoughts of warmth, branching memories flickering through their head.

Harry had closed their eyes at some point without realising it, but those lids flew open again. They stared with heat into the centre of the rune before allowing their eyes to unfocus — looking into a space beyond.

One breath.

Then two.

The third passed, and disappointment pin-pricked—

A globule of light blossomed in the air above the centre line.

Harry choked on the fourth breath.

"I-I . . ." they wheezed. "Th-this. . . ."

The light trembled, jittering from side to side, but re-settled as Harry steadied their hands.

A giggle erupted from them, breathless and hysterical. They cupped their hands and brought the light up to their face.

Harry was used to witchcraft — the subtle arts, the sort that manifested as strange coincidences and turns of luck. They had also been slowly acclimating to the snake-speaking and shape-shifting, but those, too, were subtle in their own ways. This wasn't any of that — this was flash and fire, dramatic and sudden; there was no explaining this away as anything mundane.

"_Wizardry_," they exhaled, their breath flickering the light like a candle flame. Not the kind of their original reality that was fraught with High and Ceremonial Magick involving deities they'd been too irreverent to involve themselves with, but the kind that was unique to this one.

_And they could do it._

They could do it _as they pleased_.

* * *

**B**y the time Harry's seventh birthday rolled around, they were living the highest life they could live considering the situation. Snakes at their beck and call, the ability to look any way they wanted, popular amongst their peers, 'talented', and the Dursleys completely taken in — Harry was Mary-Sue-ing the shite out of this alternate universe. The only thing keeping them from being completely OP and running off to Gringotts and likely finding themselves with a vault of gold and enchanted objects — as was par for course for one of these absurd stories — was Harry themselves.

Woefully, they had not escaped their anxiety even in this reality. Harry was completely terrified of trying to find their way into Diagon and then — _and then_ — actually talking to someone from the wizarding society. Unfamiliar human interaction? Erm, no, thanks. Yeah, sure, they knew how to call the Knight Bus, so they _technically_ could go wherever they wanted, but calling the Knight Bus meant talking to the driver, being amongst strangers, and, whoa, they weren't ready for _that_. They'd just gotten comfortable around Privet Drive, they weren't eager to leave their comfort zone just yet.

It was their cowardice that would prevent them from becoming a true Mary-Sue, they just knew it. Well, Harry wasn't exactly disappointed to be forgoing that fate.

In the meantime, it wasn't like they were hard up for pocket money.

Despite being convinced now that Harry was 'normal' because of their influence, the Dursleys still didn't exactly favour Harry — being 'Lily's daughter' was still bad enough — so neither Aunt Petunia nor Uncle Vernon were willing to do more than spend the minimum to feed and clothe them. On the bright side, despite the verbal abuse, the two of them left Harry to their own devices, paying no mind to what belongings Harry managed to accumulate, toys or treats or otherwise. That meant whatever money and trinkets Harry conned out of their classmates and the other kids around the neighbourhood were theirs to do with as they pleased.

Now, originally, Harry had been concerned that Dudley would be his canon greedy-arse self and take everything of Harry's he could get his hands on. Harry circumvented that by playing oblivious and generous, cheerfully offering Dudley any prizes he wanted from what Harry amassed day to day, plying him with gifts and sweets as a matter of course in front of witnesses, letting it be publicly- and widely-known that Harry happily got along with their cousin. This got Harry in Dudley's good books and prevented any possible bully from trying their luck; as someone who was so obviously aligned with the biggest and meanest bully in school, Harry was essentially untouchable despite being small and non-threatening — the sort typically picked on no matter how much others generally liked them.

And so — unhindered, safe and insured — Harry swindled their unsuspecting targets blind. They still nicked what they wanted, but they now mainly reserved that for school supplies. Being known as someone who regularly won games and wagers meant they were never suspected when seen with things they didn't come to school with originally. Their stolen goods were disguised amongst their winnings.

Ah, but how was Harry achieving this?

What other way but magic?

Alright, to be fair, Harry was naturally good at card games, and physical competitions were a breeze with their metamorphism; they _did_ win fair(ish) and square at least _half_ of the time! They'd go so far as to say three-fourths of the time! So, if they used a little push to get the dice to land on the numbers they wanted and added a little something in their voice to buff their bluffs, was it really anything noteworthy? They were little kids that played for sweets, toys, and a couple of pounds at most!

And it wasn't like Harry won _every_ time — that would be suspicious! No, they threw matches when it suited them. It wasn't like it really mattered in the end. When it came down to it, they _were_ playing for fun, and it wasn't fun to win every time — not the best way to maintain positive relations either. No, it was better to lose every once in a while and heartily congratulate the victor; nothing said laid-back and fun to hang out with than someone who celebrated your victories with you.

Okay, so they were gaming the system and manipulating people — so what? It wasn't like anyone was being harmed! Harry could be genuine and make real friends when it actually mattered.

_§__Such stupid prey,__§_ hissed a quiet voice in Harry's ear. Spring-Dew-on-Grass — Dewey, a tiny baby grass snake that liked to come to school with Harry — slithered in their riotous hair. She sniffed out the other students for Harry during games like Hide-and-Seek. _§__They don't smell Overlord's deception.__§_

They were in the last hour before the end of the day. They had a substitute (or a 'supply teacher' as it was called here), and they were playing board games because the teacher had somehow run out of material. And so they were divided up into groups and given their choices of games. Harry's group had gone with Monopoly.

Harry hummed in response to Dewey, flicking their wrist and sending a pair of dice tumbling onto the face of the table. They made a soft sound of satisfaction — twelve; doubles. They moved from a railroad they owned, passed GO, collected their Ϻ200, and landed on Chance.

'Your building and loans mature — Collect Ϻ150.'

"Of course," muttered Hafsah, a Pakistani girl that usually pair with them for class assignments. She sounded more amused than irritated.

They picked up the dice again. And doubles again — ten this time.

Piers scoffed, his nose wrinkling up.

"Are you serious?"

Harry tittered, moving to Community Chest.

'Bank error in your favour — collect Ϻ200.'

"I swear to God, Harry!" said the blonde girl sitting across from them as the rest of them laughed. "If you get _one more_ double. . . !"

"She'd go to Jail then, wouldn't she?" said Piers.

"Oh — that's right. Please, get another double, Harry! This is completely unfair!"

Oh, you don't know the half of it, Harry thought with a smile. They picked up the dice yet again. Not a double this time — that wouldn't suit them. No, instead. . . .

Three — Free Parking.

"_No__oo!_" wailed Hafsah, tugging on her plaits. "I've given up so much money to that!"

"_You_? My entire comeback was banking on that!"

"Why is your luck so ruddy amazing?!"

Harry all but cackled, snatching up the colourful bills and making a show of counting them.

"Alright now!" called the teacher, clapping her hands over the din. "Time to tidy up! Everyone who won come get their prizes after!"

There was no question of who won when it came to Harry's group. They just sighed and grumbled and waved Harry off as they started packing away the game.

_§__T__hey're not stupid,__§_ Harry breathed under their breath as they bounced up to the teacher. _§__They're just unsuspecting. __I __**am**__ cheating after all.__§_

_§__W__hy were they not all also taking advantage?__§_ Dewey asked_._ _§__The point was to defeat the competition, yes?__§_

Harry fidgeted cutely for the teacher and pointed to what they wanted. They beamed and bounced and babbled their thanks when it was handed to them, giggling when the teacher patted their fluffy head.

Harry flicked open the black bamboo folding fan with glee and hid their smirk behind it.

_§_ _It's not like they even stood a chance either way._ _§_


	5. Chapter 5

**AN: **I should have written an SI-fic _years_ ago — apparently, it can actually make me update in something of a timely manner. . . .

* * *

**Chapter Five: In Which Filler Happens, But It's Character- and World-Building Filler, So There!**

* * *

**S**o, despite doing well for themselves on the surface level, Harry was acutely aware their situation would come crashing down as soon as their Hogwarts letter came. The security and relative comfort they experienced was dependent on the Dursleys believing Harry was 'normal', and that would be out the window at the drop of a hat. And considering they were still sleeping the cupboard under the stairs even with the Dursleys significantly fonder of them than canon-Harry, this was something they'd been dreading for a while.

Granted, this was still a handful of years away, but it was inevitable, and Harry was the sort that tortured themselves by wallowing on things they could not change.

When they weren't wallowing, though, they were planning.

First and foremost, Harry wanted to get out from under the Dursley's thumb as soon as they could. In many fics they read, that meant staying in Diagon Alley after the shopping trip with Hagrid. This was mainly dependent on them having piles of money tucked away in their vault, something they weren't certain if they could count on.

Now, based on both the books and the films, they _knew_ there was indeed an impressive stash in that vault, but what they didn't know was if what was in that vault was literally everything to their name or if there was a source of income swelling it. Both canon-Harry and his father had jobs, but Harry didn't know if those two did so because they had to or because they wanted to; the ancestry Harry knew of boasted at least one politician and a couple of inventors, the latest of which — Fleamont, Harry's grandfather — having 'quadrupled' the family's coffers from developing Sleakeazy's Hair Potion. Harry remembered reading that he later sold the company for a massive profit when he retired, but they weren't certain if he'd made certain to retain the rights for royalties.

If the Potter vault was getting royalty payments, then Harry wouldn't have to worry about investing right away, never mind getting a job. Harry wasn't against getting a job or anything, but they didn't do well under pressure and would rather not have that need hanging over their head. Also, if Harry didn't need to worry about maintaining a steady source of income, they could move out without fear. Harry didn't care if there was no Potter Manor or whatever — as long as they had the means to ensure a safe place to sleep, they'd be satisfied.

Moving out before they were seventeen, though. . . . Harry wasn't sure if they wanted to risk it even if they did have the money for it. They didn't want to potentially incite Dumbledore's attention.

Controversies and discourse about Dumbledore as well as Harry's own thoughts aside, they didn't want him investing any consideration about where Harry was living outside of the cursory acknowledgement. Harry did _not_ want their comings and goings monitored any more than it already was with Mrs Figg where she was. Leaving Number Four would draw attention.

And so, they had to get creative.

Harry wasn't willing to stay with the Dursleys any longer than strictly necessary, but they couldn't let Dumbledore catch on that they weren't where they were supposed to be. And they knew they had to spend at least two weeks within the wards every summer so that they didn't collapse and leave everyone involved vulnerable — they remembered reading that somewhere. So, what better way to recharge the wards, avoid the Dursleys, and dupe Dumbledore than to get themselves a travel bag with an Undetectable Expansion Charm on it like Moody's trunk and Scamander's suitcase and take up residence within a rose bush for the required length of time before running off to parts unknown? And if things followed canon closely enough that Dumbledore still returned the Invisibility Cloak to Harry on Christmas, Harry could cover their Expanded bag with the Cloak and be unreachable to friend as well as foe indefinitely no matter where they went.

Thus Harry was snatching up any money they could get their hands on while they still had time. They hustled older kids; they did chores for neighbours; they did homework for their classmates; they skimmed what they could from Dudley's allowance when the boy wasn't looking; they lifted a few bills from Uncle Vernon's wallet when it was left unattended. If they could somehow manage to get enough money for an Expanded bag before Hogwarts came calling — they had no doubts it would cost a pretty penny — then no one would have any inkling they bought such an item, not even if they could somehow check Harry's bank statements.

But there was just only so much Harry could do within the neighbourhood to pull cash no matter how fervently they worked.

Harry was very seriously considering biting the bullet and start taking the Knight Bus into London to go busking despite how much the thought terrified them. They shook just on contemplating it, but the thought wouldn't leave them be; they didn't have any option with the same potential to be lucrative. They weren't even close to old enough to do it alone, but they morph themselves to look so, and that might ease their stage-fright as well.

They didn't have any equipment, though — they didn't have an instrument either. Hell, they had no experience performing publicly at all. They were planning on layering coercion in their voice to nudge the most stubborn of listeners into parting with their cash, but that couldn't actually happen until they had something more than just their voice to work with — it'd be suspicious as Hell if a kid doing nothing but singing drew in a generous crowd, no matter how good they were at it; Harry didn't want to tempt fate and potentially get discovered by magical law enforcement.

Harry liked to imagine wowing donors with a lively violin performance — ooh, or maybe with a cute little pochette or rebec! — but the fact of the matter was that even if they did have a violin, they weren't exactly amazing at it; lacked the pizazz, not enough passion — wasn't even their primary instrument, they were trained for viola. Even if that was just their self-deprecation talking, they were nearly a decade out of practice either way — not in any state to be performing for a crowd. To put another damper on that little fantasy, there was no way they'd be able to get away with owning one past the Dursleys even if they could somehow afford one.

They _really_ fancied a Neapolitan mandolin — peak aesthetic for them — but that was even more improbable than a violin; where would they find a luthier in the first place? No, any thirst for lovely instruments would have to remain unquenched until they could get their hands on their wizarding funds. In the meantime, Harry's best bet would be a ukulele.

Now, a proper ukulele would be on the same level of Not Going to Happen™ as a violin, but the discount shop had four-stringed toy 'guitars' that were the perfect size to fit in Harry's backpack with their other belongings, so they were banking on the thing being small enough to not be discovered. And also on it being cheap enough that the Dursleys wouldn't care if it was discovered. The things cost around five or ten quid from last they checked, an amount Harry was willing to part with, so it was only a matter of taking a free Saturday afternoon to run out and get one.

Surely enough, after Harry's chores were finished the next Saturday morning, Aunt Petunia pushed them out the door without a backwards glance.

Harry strode down the pavement at a brisk pace, almost jogging, hoping their intentful countenance would prevent anyone who happened to look upon them to think anything out of place. As they went, they slowly shifted into something unrecognisable, using the cover of their hooded jumper for concealment.

By the time Harry got to the discount shop, they appeared to be a plain-faced child with flat dirty-blond hair and a square head. They gave themselves some inches and made their hands and feet over-sized. Given their newly awkward proportions, they looked like a child a handful of years older than they were who was on the brink of a growth spurt. With the baggy clothes they'd chosen that day, they greatly resembled the year seven boys that hung about the basketball court in the park across the street.

Needless to say, nothing about them currently resembled Harry Potter.

There was an older girl at the check-out. It wasn't yet the best hours for business, so she was occupied with a book as Harry came in. She looked up and gave them a perfunctory once-over and a nod as they passed her on their way.

Harry started their search from the back, wandering at the ends of aisles with their eyes out for anything interesting as well as the thing they originally came for (it wouldn't do to overlook something amusing). Household supplies, toiletries, pet equipment—

Ah! There they were! Just beyond the disposable eating utensils, sat amongst other children's instruments, were the toy guitars in question.

With a bounce, Harry dropped into a crouch in from of their prize, their eyes sliding over xylophones, recorders, et cetera. They surveyed the selection.

Well, despite being advertised as guitars, they were definite ukuleles; they were all in the pineapple shape, something Harry was certain guitars never used. Not that they were complaining — that body shape made the sound more resonant and mellow, and that would help them coax out something that resembled actual music. There was assorted decal of fruit amongst the expected shades of brown as well.

Huh, they . . . they actually looked pretty nice; they were actually wood! Bless the '80s for their still decent merchandise standards for inexpensive goods.

Harry wondered if going with one with the fruit designs would buff their adorableness and improve their earning rate. They were tempted by a bright green one painted as a sliced kiwi. They'd seen nail polish a similar shade an aisle over; they could make it a theme. It would bring out and brighten the colour of their eyes when they were their natural shade again as well.

Alright, fully convinced, Harry indeed went with the kiwi ukulele. They tucked it under one arm as they went to retrieve the aforementioned green nail polish, taking care not to muss the packaging.

Oh, hey, the polish was the peel-off kind — Harry wouldn't have to worry about polish remover or doing touch-ups. They were two for a quid, so Harry took both a dark and light shade of green.

Before they turned and went, they stalled a moment longer in front of the display. After a pause, Harry took a bottle of light blue, light purple, pale pink, and lemon yellow as well.

The girl at the check-out side-eyed them when she noted the nail polish, but Harry just muttered, "Sister's birthday," as they dug in their pocket for their money.

The girl hummed and lost interest, efficiently bagging their purchases.

The next moment found Harry ducking into the alley on the side, fingers already prying open the package as they sped their way back the way they'd come.

They eventually came to a stop a few streets down from Mrs Figg's house on Wisteria Walk at an empty house with a back gate that couldn't lock. Carefully scanning the area to make certain no eyes were on them, Harry unlatched the wooden gate and slipped into the back garden.

The entire garden was overgrown despite its minuscule allotment, the grass tall and uneven. Vines climbed the wall of the house, curling up the trellis there. A stone bench, cracked and dull, stood underneath a ragged tree, and this was where Harry seated themselves to properly inspect their goods, morphing back into their usual form.

Renewed green eyes took in the instrument on their lap with awe, the sixteen inches of cheery pigment drawing a smile onto their face. Harry traced a digit down one side of the fingerboard and around the soundhole, delighting in the smooth glide. They ran a thumb across the nylon strings and then clicked their tongue at the sound — out of tune. _Very_ out of tune.

Their school had a piano in the music room, so Harry would properly tune it later, but for now, they'd make do with matching it to their voice. It took some time — tuning for the first time always did — but it was eventually made serviceable.

Harry pressed their third finger onto the third fret of the fourth string and strummed down with their thumb. The C chord rang out bright and clear.

Their eyes prickled with moisture. They laughed, rubbing the heel of their palm into their eye.

Well, even if they ended up chickening out from busking, they finally had something to play on, so there was that if nothing else.

* * *

**I**n Harry's opinion, one of the best parts of being neglected was no one giving a damn when they disappeared for hours upon hours at a time. Like, they wouldn't wish it on an actual still-being-raised-and-needs-love-and-attention child, but being free to run buck-wild with no guardian sparing a thought made this shitty excuse for a reincarnation/transmigration thing kind of worth it. Case in point: Harry could spend days and days at the library, and neither Aunt Petunia nor Uncle Vernon cared as long as their chores were done.

The librarians at the Little Whinging public library were all well used to seeing Harry coming and going by now, hauling stacks after stacks of books back and forth. They were slowly warming up to Harry as Harry inched their way up the reading levels.

Harry wanted to leave the children's books behind already — they'd never liked books about children from ages of six to ten even when they themselves had originally been in that demographic — but it would be suspicious as all get out if they suddenly started going for New Adult, Mature, or Classic fiction. Hell, even Young Adult would draw eyes at this stage. So they had to work up to it. It was slow going from their point of view, but it was likely something curious from the other side.

Harry imagined the librarian ladies were also coming to suspect things were 'not quite alright at home' with Harry considering Harry was being very Matilda-esque in the rate they appeared to gobble through books while never having a guardian present, but Harry made it a point to behave as cheerful and well-adjusted as possible to stave off their suspicions.

Harry was not there for fiction that day, though — well, not right away, at least. For now, they needed books on music. Nearly a decade without practice called for a thorough refresher, so Harry had brought a notebook to write down chord formations so they could review it later. Maybe if they were lucky, they'd find some songbooks for pieces they didn't already know, too.

For whatever reason, the music section was up on the second floor with the adult content and antique collection. For obvious reasons, Harry had never had permission to go up there. Now, though, the lady at the front desk wrote Harry a pass to show the librarian that supervised the second floor so that they wouldn't be sent out immediately because of their age.

As expected, the second-floor supervisor wasn't happy to see them, but she dutifully directed Harry to the section requested.

"It's down that direction," she said pointing. "There are reading tables past this first section of shelves, and then there's a section beyond that on Music Theory. Off to the side of the blue tables. Books on chords . . . should be near the material on guitars and the like. There are signs."

Sure enough, Harry found them. The section was hard to miss, boldly labelled and painted bright white. They skimmed a few books and took down any that looked promising. With a stack of books in their arms, they made themselves at home at the nearest reading table.

Harry took out a pen and notebook from their backpack and began drawing out the formations.

They didn't know how long they sat there working before they felt eyes on them.

Feigning nonchalance, they sat up and stretched, twisting this way and that. A yawn closed their eyes.

Blinking them open again, Harry's gaze met with a child a bit older than they were — they appeared to be a boy. He was standing maybe a few metres away at a bookshelf within the antique collection section.

The said boy blushed at being caught and ducked his head, but did not run off.

Harry smiled curiously, tilting their head. This was new.

Despite being visibly abashed, the boy apparently took Harry's nonplussed reaction as an invitation to approach them.

"Hi," the boy breathed, fiddling with his fingers.

Harry's smile widened without their behest. They were endeared despite themselves; being regarded as intimidating was pretty novel so far in this lifetime, and they couldn't help but enjoy the smugness that came with it.

"Hello," they said in return, keeping mind to keep their voice low. "You alright?"

"Y-yeah," said the boy. "Sorry, but, u-um. . . . Are you. . . ? That is, erm — y-you're Harry Potter, right?"

Harry blinked, their mouth falling ajar.

"How. . . ?" they started. Their hand flew to their forehead, where their fringe was decidedly _not_ covering their scar. Oh, of all the days to be wearing an Alice band!

The boy correctly assumed Harry's action to be confirmation and somehow became even more flustered and agog.

"Alright, alright," said Harry, waving the boy over to sit. "I'm flattered, of course, but we really can't make a scene here, you know. You obviously know I'm Harry, so what's _your_ name?"

'Towler!" he cried before wincing at his exclamation. He glanced around guiltily before saying, "That is, erm, I-I'm Kenneth Towler. It's . . . it's an honour!"

"It's nice to meet you, too," said Harry, trying to remember why that name was familiar. "So, you, erm," they lowered their voice further, "you have magic, too, then?"

"Y-Yeah! My entire family, actually!" he said eagerly. "W-well, not my dad's parents — they're Muggles. Heh, they live in this area — that's why I'm here, I'll be staying with them for the summer, and there's really not much else to do around here, is there? Mum suggested making friends with muggle kids, but I'm not exactly keen — don't really know how much I can say without giving myself away, and I don't exactly know what muggle kids do, so what would we even talk about, yeah? So, here I am at the library my gran works at for lack anything else to do—

"And, wow, what are _you_ doing here? Do you live around here, too? I'd have never guessed — though, I supposed that's the point; you wouldn't exactly be hidden safely away if anyone could just guess where you are and show up there, but even knowing that, this is still the last place anyone would expect you to be — there's a magical population of, like, a single handful including the two of us within this entire town, and half of my count are the half-kneazles my grandparents have—

"Oh, Merlin, I'm rambling, aren't I?" he gasped, turning red again. "I'm totally rambling! I'm sorry! It's just — sorry!"

He clammed up looking like he wished the ground would open up and swallow him.

Harry couldn't do anything but giggle, reaching out to pat the boy on the arm.

"It's fine!" they said. "I wasn't expecting to see another magical around either — pretty certain this place was chosen specifically because of how muggle it is on top everything else. Certainly wasn't expecting to be recognised."

"I wasn't sure at first when I saw your scar," Kenneth said slowly. "I thought I was just seeing things. But then I got a closer look, and, wow, it really is shaped like a lightning bolt, huh? It's wicked cool!"

Harry finally remembered where they knew Kenneth's name from — Fred and George mentioned him in the fifth book! He was a Gryffindor in the twins' year!

The two of them talked for a while longer. Kenneth was actually pretty fun to talk with after he came out of his idol-strickenness some and lost his timidity as well. He didn't seem to mind Harry didn't have overly much to add to the conversation and happily chattered enough for the two of them on everything from his family, how cool Harry was, how weird Muggles were, what things he liked to do, how cool Harry was, what he was excited about when he'd finally get to Hogwarts, and how cool Harry was.

Harry wasn't going to lie, they did enjoy hearing about how cool they apparently were.

"I can't believe I met the One Who Lived by visiting my grandparents!" Kenneth gushed. "Mum is going to go mad when she hears!"

Harry's heart jumped.

"'The One Who Lived'?" they echoed.

No way — this was too good to be true. . . .

"Oh, that's . . . that's what you're known as," said Kenneth. "It's because of how you survived and offed You-Know-Who. Did you not know?" He looked shocked that Harry of all people wouldn't know their title.

Thinking quickly, Harry improvised.

"I've lived with my muggle aunt and her family for as long as I can remember," they said. "They don't actually know anything except my parents died and I survived. I figured I was known for my scar for some reason since I sometimes run into people who see my scar and call me by name, but that's really it." They put on their most innocently confused tone. "Who's 'You-Know-Who'?"

Aghast, Kenneth launched into an explanation of everything he knew on the topic. It was actually a surprising amount considering he wasn't more than a mentioned name in the books and still a kid at this point at that, but Harry remembered that he was implied to be something of an over-achiever, so it was at least in character.

Harry eventually had to leave since they had to prep and make dinner, but Kenneth and they promised to meet up again the next weekend. Harry left satisfied that they now had an excuse to know as much as they did about the war and wizarding society despite being raised muggle.

* * *

_**T**__HUMP-thump-thump-thump-THUMP-thump-thump-thump_

A steady pounding beat could be heard over the sounds of the busy foot-trafficked road. Conversations stalled. Heads turned and people paused.

Eyes alighted on a small figure sitting on the pavement.

"_Trapped and spellbound I am._"

_**T**__HUMP-thump-thump-thump-THUMP-thump-thump-thump_

A child who couldn't have been more than fifteen — pale as milk with bright, red corkscrew curls fluttering in the breeze — sat against the side of a bakery, drumming the face of a small stringed instrument with their knuckles. A hat with a few notes and coins sat next to them.

"_I am./ An enchanter enraptured me,/ captured me./_"

Many couldn't help but stare. Tantalising tones pulled at them. More than one person wandered closer. What a pretty girl! What a lovely voice!

Hands dug into pockets and purses.

"_Trapped and spellbound deep within my soul_," she sang, blinking sweetly at the crowd. Her lips curved up at those that approached with their offerings. "_W__ith__in my soul./ __Within my heart burns a seething f__lame__,/ a seething f__lame__./_"

_T__HUMP-thump-thump-thump-THUMP-thump-thump-thump_

Though it could not be said they she raised her voice, the sound of her reached and washed over everyone in sight.

If later asked how long they stood there or what they even listened to, no one in the audience would have been able to answer. They only knew it was time that they didn't regret spending — and money they didn't regret tipping either.

* * *

**AN:** The song used in this last scene is my translation of Trøllabundin by Eivør Pálsdóttir. I recommend listening to it because it's a Hell of a banger on top of being magical as shit.

My Tumblr handle is hi-pot-and-news, so come gimme a follow if you're interested in my BS.


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